Out of Darkness
by ADraconicScribe
Summary: There's been an awful murder: two siblings are slaughtered in their own home. That dark, evil magic was used is undeniable, and Auror Harry Potter is called in to investigate and catch the killer. However, his primary suspect—a seemingly ordinary man—doesn't appear to be murder material. Yet, undeniably, he's hiding something, something tied to the killing. Up for adoption.
1. Chapter 1: The Murders

Chapter One: The Murders of Margaret and Marcus Penn

The first thing Harry noticed was the blood on the walls. Most of it had dried a rusty, corroded brown by now (the crime scene was nearly a day old), but some still looked tacky and sticky, shiny like wet paint. Only wet paint smelled of chemicals, of dyes and liquids, not a rotten, coppery scent that was all-too familiar to him. The floor was dark wood, the walls a neutral beige. A little chandelier hung from the ceiling, four bright lights that lit up the room and left nothing hidden in shadow. Every horrible detail was revealed, like bleached bones after all the tissue, muscle, and skin had been stripped away.

Harry moved gingerly through the room, stepping over blood to prevent contamination (of both the crime scene and of his shoes; he really didn't want to buy another pair so soon after last time). As he approached, he examined the bodies near the center of the room with a critical eye. A woman, it looked like, and a man, though the blood made it difficult to tell. Both had dark hair, with the woman's darker than the man's.

"So, who are they?" he asked the woman crouched beside them. He'd just been called in (it was supposed to be his day off, but his boss had said they'd needed him. He could understand that Dark wizards didn't really care about whether he should've been working or not), and had been informed that Jones would brief him. She had curly black hair that was pulled up in a professional bun, though a few strands had escaped its tight hold. They waved in the air like tentacles. In her hand was a state-of-the-art wizarding camera, and it gleamed proudly, showing off its shine; Harry remembered watching the woman polish it. Currently, she was using it to document the scene.

"Margaret and Marcus Penn, an older sister and a younger brother. The muggles in the neighborhood didn't know them very well, said they'd just moved in around a month ago and rarely left the house. Their fireplace was connected to the floo, though, so who knows how often they actually left?" Jones hovered over the woman's dead face and wide eyes, snapping a few close-ups.

"Hmm. Any witnesses?" Harry crouched down next to her. He looked closer at the bodies. The dead woman's neck was ripped open, and he didn't know anything sans magic that could create such a vicious wound. She had other lacerations on her wrists, legs, and torso. The man was much the same, except he had no slash across his throat; instead, there was a deep hole in his chest.

The corpses were dressed in typical wizard fashion: somewhat muggle-ish, old-style clothing underneath long, flowing robes. The man had been wearing gray slacks, dress shoes, and a white button-up under charcoal-gray robes when he'd died. It was a smart casual look. Had they been planning on going out? The dead woman was donned in a long, purple dress with embroidery up the bodice and hem. Overtop were black robes accented in gold and violet. Going out was a good possibility; who wore that type of clothes in the evening unless there were plans?

"A few muggles heard screaming, saw some flashing lights about ten o'clock last night. That's when they called 999. Nothing concrete, but they were obliviated anyway. Can't be too careful." Jones moved to the man's body, having captured every inch of the woman's.

Harry nodded, standing back up. "Time of death?"

"Yesterday, around eleven P.M."

"But if the muggles called around ten, then why didn't the muggle police arrive sooner?" Harry questioned.

"They did. Got to the house about ten-fifteen. Except, they couldn't get in. They tried to bust down the door, break the windows. Couldn't even see what was happening, really. Just lights and shouting. It sounded like a standard ward, or maybe an over powered, long-lasting shield charm. Even the aurors couldn't get in until about two in the morning." She stood up, took a couple more pictures, and turned to face him.

"Yes, except how was the ward set up so quickly or over such a wide expanse? The killer must be pretty powerful," Harry pointed out.

"Or he got here early, set it up somehow without the victims noticing. They could've been asleep," the woman speculated. Harry grunted. He straightened and took out his wand to cast a precise magical detection spell.

His wand burned a dark, violent blue color and vibrated angrily in his hand. No list of spells appeared before him, nothing to indicate exactly what had occurred. What was going on?

He furrowed his brow. The woman looked up at him.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Has anyone attempted to determine what spells were cast during the murder?" He re-cast the spell, but the results were the same as before. He cast a magical signature spell. The strongest magical signature, of course, came from the wizard themselves, but for a short time (a few hours or up to a week, depending) after they cast spells, a wizard's magic hung in the air, clinging to the area around where the magic had been cast. Traces of magic even lingered after death, though most dissipated immediately after the wizard died.

There were four magical signatures in the vicinity. He discounted one immediately, for it was a mint green color that emanated directly from the woman at his side. Two others painted the dead bodies in front of him: a deep indigo-blue for the man, and a dark purple for the woman. The colors hinted at the siblings use of Dark magic. But what really disturbed him was the one that covered the walls, layered over the blood, and clung to the corpses in front of him like a sickly disease. It was black, a darkness that sucked the light out of everything, sucked the life out of it. "What the hell?" he muttered quietly under his breath.

"I don't think so, no. It's sort of a specialized spell; we were waiting for an expert." She looked at him, not having heard, and tilted her head to one side, clearly waiting for an explanation. Apparently, he was the expert she'd been waiting for.

"It's odd. It indicates that no known spells were cast, but great quantities of magic were used. Did the murderer just use only wandless, non-verbal magic? And the magical signature isn't like anything I've ever seen before. Do you know the basic premise of magical signatures?"

"The color indicates power—red being the least powerful, violet being the most—and the shade indicates the darkness of the magic—the darker the color, the darker the magic," the woman affirmed.

"The person that did this… Their magical signature is black. It's impossible! No one could have used that much dark magic—to erase the color entirely… They must've done something to scramble it so we couldn't use it to help us track them down," Harry hypothesized. There was no way their magical signature was black. That meant whoever had done this was smart—very smart, and very talented.

Most dark wizards that committed a crime as heinous as this were either too crazy or too arrogant to cover their tracks like this. Or both; the evil magicks they dabbled in often had side effects. You couldn't go around making sacrifices and using dark artifacts without damaging yourself—it corrupted your magic, somehow, and then corrupted your mind, soul, and body. Harry had wished he'd paid more attention to magical theory, now that he was applying it more in real life, but, well, he didn't think Hogwarts had even covered the effects of dark magic.

It was the beginners you had to watch out for. Or ones that had somehow managed to stay sane—or at least smart—through all that they had put themselves through. Since Harry didn't think he'd ever come across any murders quite like this, he was willing to bet on the former.

"Has the rest of the house been cleared?" Harry asked, looking back at the door he'd come through. It led to the living room. They were in the dining room now, which connected to the kitchen. The only clue that it was a dining room, however, was the small, round table tucked into the corner. It appeared that a vase of flowers had once rested there; but the flowers had been torn to pieces, and the remains of the ceramic vase were scattered under the table like hundreds of fallen soldiers.

"Auror Weasley went upstairs to look around. He said that something was wrong with the basement entrance, said to wait for you." Harry began to move back toward the door.

"Good work, Jones. Go have someone come to help you take the bodies back to the Department. If you find something, I want to be the first to know."

"Yessir, Auror Potter." She gave a sort of grin and half-salute, putting her camera away in her side satchel. "Good luck finding the bastard that did this."

"I'll do my best." Harry stepped out of the room and began to walk up the stairs, wand in front (never could be too careful). "Ron?" he called.

"In here, Harry!" He finished climbing the stairs and found himself in a hallway with doors lining both sides. There was a plush carpet on the hardwood floor, and a few nice paintings hung on the stretches of wall in between the doors. Surprisingly, they didn't move. What were a witch and wizard doing with muggle paintings?

Harry walked into the last door on the right. Ron was inside, waving his wand about to detect general magic (not the specific spell-detection technique Harry had used downstairs) and looking around for anything out of place.

"It's looking pretty clean," he commented to Harry. The red-head turned to face him. "Pretty gruesome downstairs, though."

"Jones said you needed me for the basement?" Harry asked.

"Yeah. The door's loaded with runes, and I didn't want to risk it."

"Let's get it over with, then. We have plenty of work to do after this." Harry began to trot back into the hall and down the stairs. The entrance to the basement was located in the kitchen, and they passed quickly through the dining room.

The basement door emitted a chill, like invisible, icy fingers were grasping outward to choke anyone close enough to catch. It looked simple enough: plain white wood, a brass doorknob, a few scratches. On the frame around it, however, were runes carved into the wood. Harry wasn't the best at runes—things like this had always been Hermione's area. He knew the basics, however, and knew enough to be wary.

Leaning close, but not touching, he examined them carefully. He wished that someone who better knew runes was on hand, but he was the one they had. They couldn't afford to contact someone and waste time trying to coerce them onto the crime scene. Most people didn't like to have anything to do with dark wizards, and this trail _couldn't_ go cold. Someone like this, who had killed those siblings like that, who had known enough to scramble their signature, or, _worse_ , who had a signature that dark… Someone like this wouldn't rest, would strike again.

Having peered at the runes for a few minutes, Harry felt he understood enough to proceed.

"Those mean that, to pass through the door unharmed, it requires known blood to enter," Harry said, pointing at a rune shaped like a spiraling, upside down triangle, "and that one indicates that… something… will happen if the one who enters is not known or doesn't give blood. This is pretty heavy-duty. Whoever these Penn siblings were, they knew some magic."

Ron nodded, also looking at the runes closely (not that he could read them). "Can we get through, mate?"

"Yeah. Give me a moment." He thought about it. If he poured enough magic into them, the runes would short-out, overloaded with magic. However, there were so many that he didn't think that would work. He could maybe trick them somehow into thinking his blood was someone else's. Or…

"Hey, Ron, how much trouble would it be to get a blood sample from one of the corpses?" The red-head shrugged, scratching at his nose.

Harry walked back into the hallway, past the hideous dining room, and through the living room to the outside of the house. Officials were milling around, chatting about what was happening, examining the house and grounds. The two bodies had already been levitated out of the house, and it looked as if Jones and a couple of others were securing them to be port-keyed elsewhere.

To transport any sort of evidence, a portkey was used instead of apparition; apparition was too unpredictable and had left many a splinched corpse behind because of the wizard's squeamishness. A portkey, fortunately, was easier, though it was also easier to tamper with (as Harry knew well). That was why the portkeys were examined thoroughly before being used to transport evidence.

"Jones!" Harry called, walking quickly toward her and her group. "I need a blood sample."

"A blood sample? Who from?" She asked, pausing in what she was doing to raise her eyebrow at him. "And why?"

"One of the bodies. The door to the basement needs known blood for us to get through. I don't want to mess with it and damage possible evidence. Who knows what the Penns were doing down there that required such precautions?"

"Well, I suppose you'll know soon. Give me a moment to collect the blood."

She went to kneel beside a bag and removed a vial from it. With a wave of her wand, she spelled the vial to fill with blood. She handed it to Harry without fuss.

"Thanks," he said, and Jones nodded, going back to help with the bodies.

He walked back into the house and to the basement, holding up the vial for Ron to see. The red-head grinned.

"So, do we just put some onto the frame?" he asked.

"I think so." Harry uncorked the vial carefully (though, thankfully, Jones had enough sense to only fill it up half-way). He tipped the glass until a trickle of blood dripped out onto his finger. He rubbed it carefully onto one of the runes.

The door glowed briefly before the light faded.

"Think that means we can go in?" Ron asked. He held his wand at the ready.

"Let's hope so," Harry replied, and they began down to the basement. The wooden stairs groaned angrily with their every step, furious with the pressure put on them, no matter how gentle they tried to be.

Even though they had flicked the lights on, it was still dim, and the smell of mold and dust wormed into their noses like pollen on a spring day. Ron sneezed. The soft peach paint on the walls was peeling up, exposing the gray, concrete flesh beneath. They turned on the landing to head down the last ten steps or so.

"This is creepy as hell, mate," Ron muttered.

"Yeah. Makes me wonder what the Penns were up to down here," Harry agreed. At last they reached the bottom, and Ron gasped.

Huge floor to ceiling bookcases lined the walls, and books of all shapes and sizes rested there. Harry could make out a few of the titles: _The Art of Torture: Psychological and Physical_ ; _How to Brew Poison_ ; _Ancient Curses: All you Need to Know_ ; and _Obscure Spells Guaranteed to Defeat any Opponent._ In the center of the room was a long table, stacked high with herbs, beakers, tools, vials, and cauldrons. The herbs looked dangerous; they were deep, violent colors like purple, red, and blue, with sharp thorns and shriveled petals. Some of the beakers preserved body parts or animals. A hand (probably human) floated in one, and reptilian eyes swirled in another (they almost seemed to watch them).

"Well," Harry said, "with all of this, we may have some idea of motive, now." An aspiring Dark Lord taking out competition? Or a rival Dark inventor, wanting to stop the Penns' experiments? It wasn't unheard of; in fact, it was one of the main reasons Dark wizards killed one another. If they wouldn't become followers, they became enemies and were killed.

"No kidding." Ron walked closer to the table and shuddered. "We'll need to get Jones to come in and photograph everything."

"And get everyone to take these back to the Department to be examined. Knowing exactly what they were doing may give us a clue as to whom their killer might be." And if someone could take down two pretty powerful Dark wizards, Dark wizards smart enough to hide their (what looked to be) highly illegal activities from the wizarding world for who knew how long…

Harry sighed as they trudged back up the stairs.

It was going to be a long night.

 **AN: Jones is not a major character in this; I just needed an OC. You might see a few more, but, again, none of them will play major roles, although you'll probably see Jones again in later chapters. Also, I'm probably going to mess around with magical spells and stuff, so sorry if that's boring to anyone. This story will not really be focused on pairings, and I'm really not sure who's gonna be with whom yet if I do include any. If you notice any mistakes, blame my sister who edited this.**

 **I'm new to this site, so if there are any formatting errors that I overlooked, please notify me so I can fix them immediately. Reviews are welcome. Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2: Invitations & Investigations

**Chapter Two: Invitations and Investigations**

Merlin moved linearly through time.

It was funny to him, all the books and film adaptations and legends depicting him traveling backwards or sideways or upside-down in time. How he wished that his control was that great, that precise, how he wished he could travel backwards, backwards, all the way back (back to Arthur, back to his home, back to true familiarity). He could change things, save people (he could save them all if only he traveled backwards). But no. All he could do was slow it down, stop it, maybe—put a pause to his too-long life.

Completely useless, really.

The others, they jumped through time, leaping into the regular time stream every couple of centuries and skipping out again when it was their time. What he would give to go with them. What he would give to be rid of it all, to take his place with his friends and family.

Instead, he was stuck on the straight path, the long road. He didn't have a choice, didn't have a say when or where or why things would happen.

It wasn't just his time abilities that were completely useless.

"Abbott! If you don't stop your goddamn day dreaming, you're fired!" A huge, hairy hand slammed down on the counter Merlin was leaning heavily on. He jumped, snapping his head up. A large woman loomed over him, her face a mere foot from his. He noticed the small freckles across her cheeks, and that the mole just above her lip had two fine black hairs sprouting from it. "I mean it! There will be no dozing in this shop; I'm not running a damn hotel."

Merlin rubbed his eyes. "Sorry, Mrs. Smith. Didn't get a whole lot of sleep last night." He slept from one AM to five AM exactly.

"Go to bed earlier, then, you idiotic buffoon. You young people, thinking that you can just sleep and eat willy-nilly all over the place. It'll catch up to you one day, I swear to God!" Merlin barely withheld a sigh. He wondered what Mrs. Smith would say if he told her that her measly fifty-two years paled in comparison to his one thousand-and-something (he'd lost track somewhere. It hadn't been difficult to do, considering…).

The warlock stretched and looked around. The small convenience store held only one customer: a man in the back, examining the (admittedly small) selection of beverages. Merlin could tell he was debating between two similar-looking fizzy drinks. He slumped back down onto the counter; the man looked as if he was deciding the fate of a nation (no joke. Merlin knew from experience). Mrs. Smith gave him a half-hearted swat on the arm.

"A goddamn slacker, is what you are," she muttered. "Don't even know why I keep you."

"My charm and wit, of course," Merlin replied without missing a beat. He grinned widely at her.

"More like you were the only one to apply for the job," Mrs. Smith grumbled, probing her temples with sausage-like fingers.

"That can only factor in so much, Mrs. Smith." Merlin wagged a finger at her, as one would a naughty dog or child. "Taking into account my professional, exquisitely written application—"

"Abbott, you just walked in and nearly fell on your knees begging for the job."

"—my stunning looks—"

"They do tend to stun people, alright. I saw one poor lass nearly faint at the sight of your awful hair the other day."

"—and not to mention my business smarts—"

"Yes, you _shouldn't_ mention it, actually, mainly because _you don't have any_."

"—you clearly had no choice but to hire me. It was a win for you all the way. Someone as brilliant as me working for minimum wage… What a bargain!" Mrs. Smith shook her head, exhaled heavily through her enormous lungs, and began to lumber away, her heavy footsteps whapping on the hard, tiled floor.

"Just work, would you?" she called over her shoulder. No doubt she was going to check in the back, make sure everything was in order while he had the mind-numbing job of manning the cash register. He swore that this was almost as bad as some of his servant work. Almost. Mucking the stables still weighed in at rock bottom. Out of everything he'd ever done, that vile, disgusting job had been his least favorite. Even lugging bathwater for the king…

(Too late, too late, too late. Where was the other side his coin now?)

The man in the back had finally decided to choose one of the twin drinks he'd been deciding on. Merlin didn't know why this one was better than the other. He didn't even know if there was a difference between the two, aside from labeling. While he liked the processed, sugary foods of the modern world, he would be the first to admit that a lot of them tasted the same.

The customer slammed the two-liter bottle on the counter like he was slapping down a winning hand of cards. Merlin would've asked him not to, but, well, it was his bottle. If he wanted to dent it, it was his problem.

"That all?" Merlin asked, casually ringing him up. Before the man could respond, the warlock said, "It's £1.84."

"Here." The man shoved over the required amount and snatched up his fizzy drink before marching out of the store. The bell of the door clanged violently as the handle was tugged, offended at the assault on its person.

Merlin stared after him. What was his problem?

No matter. The warlock took out a hefty tome from beneath the counter. The cover was in English ( _Under the Ocean_ , it read, by Carl Blue), but the inside was crammed with tiny lines of script in the language of the Old Religion. Its true title was _Magic: Advanced Theory and Spells,_ by Marlene Ripley. Merlin had been lucky enough to find it; locating books that actually held some relevant knowledge was difficult to come by in this day and age.

The warlock sat on the floor behind the counter comfortably, criss-crossing his legs and hunching over. The smell of old book was strong in his nose, and he breathed in the sweet perfume. He'd had to cast an anti-decaying spell on it, to be renewed periodically, but that was fine. The book was worth it.

His blue eyes swept over the page, soaking in every spell, every theory, every dreg of magic he could. The lines were elegant, written painstakingly by hand centuries ago. The woman who had written it—Marlene—had been a brilliant witch, as far as Merlin could tell. It was unfortunate he'd never had the pleasure of meeting her. As far as he could tell, though, he'd been in Asia as she'd written this.

Then, well…

The bell jangled happily as someone new walked into the store. Without missing a beat, Merlin stood up from behind the counter, brushing the nonexistent dirt off his jeans.

It was a red-headed lady, somewhat rotund and hurried. Her clothes were odd; she'd chosen a brown, grandmother-ly dress with large, black boots. The dress was old in style, decades old, and the boots were almost military-esque. She scampered to one of the aisles, examining everything carefully, and gently prodding some of the products. Merlin wondered what the hell she was doing until he realized that she was a witch. Not the strongest, but definitely formidable enough to be dangerous. What was she looking for?

"Ma'am?" he called. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"Ah, no, I don't think so. Just looking…" she said lamely, looking around with a lost expression. Merlin propped his elbows up on the counter, leaning forward and clasping his hands together.

"For what, exactly?"

"A birthday present. My husband is obsessed with mug—um, these sorts of things." Merlin stifled a laugh and hopped onto the counter, spinning on his butt till he was facing her, and leaped off. It was all done with the awkward grace of a newborn colt, always on the verge of falling but never quite there. Despite Merlin's extensive time alive, his limbs still had a will of their own, and that will didn't always line up with his.

He held out a hand for her to shake. "I'm Evan," he greeted. She took it and smiled up at him.

"Call me Molly," she told him.

"Well, Molly, I think I know _just_ what you're looking for," Merlin announced. "If you'll follow me…" He strode off down one of the aisles, to the back corner of the store. A wizard obsessed with muggles? There were worse ways one could spend one's time, he supposed.

In this corner were the odds and ends, the miscellaneous that didn't really fit in with the rest of the store, but things Mrs. Smith insisted on selling because _you never know, Abbott. And this is my goddamn store; I'll run it how I please_. There were some office supplies, like staplers, notepads, and pens, as well as more obscure things. Because magic often disrupted machines and broke them, Merlin thought that the stapler and maybe some pens or notepads would work. He didn't think they had any in the wizarding world; they still used quills and parchment, as far as he was aware.

"Now," Merlin's eyes twinkled cheerfully, "if you're husband hasn't gotten any already, I should say a stapler would be a good fit." He held one up. " _Muggles_ use them all the time, you see. They hold paper together. And no batteries, so magic won't break it." Though it _was_ rather cheaply made, if Merlin were honest. Even without the wear and tear of magic, it'd probably malfunction within the month. Molly blushed.

"Was I that obvious?" she asked, taking the stapler from him to examine it.

"Next time, I'd suggest wearing different shoes," Merlin said.

"You know, you've been a very helpful young man," Molly said. "I have a son just your age. He became an auror about two years ago. I was ever so proud of him." Sometimes Merlin hated that he was forever stuck looking twenty-something years old. It was tiring, everyone thinking he was younger than them.

"Really? I'm afraid I haven't done much with my life; just worked here, mostly. Not quite as exciting as an auror, I'm afraid, but it does have its moments. I remember one lady socked me because we were out of her favorite crisps. It hurt at the time, but it's almost funny now… And another time, one gentleman came in to rob us, only Mrs. Smith knocked him out with her broom. She's rather strong, Mrs. Smith."

"Oh, my! I can only imagine. Did you start working here immediately after you finished your schooling?"

"Yeah. Didn't really know what I wanted to do," Merlin confessed, trying to sound like an unsure young adult. It wasn't hard; the Triple Goddess knew how long Merlin actually had been one. "And working here is fine," Merlin glanced around and lowered his voice theatrically, "even if Mrs. Smith can get a little crabby."

"And where did you go to school? Ronald, he's my son, went to Hogwarts. Perhaps you knew him?"

"I was homeschooled, actually, by my mum," Merlin said. "She taught me everything I know. Did your son like Hogwarts? I was always fascinated by it; I mean, a giant castle? What kind of epic school is that?"

"All my children enjoyed it, but I worried constantly when Ron, my t-twins, George and F-Fred, and my youngest, Ginny, were attending. What with the war."

Ah. The wizarding war. Of course Merlin knew. Merlin knew too well about war and its horrors (the clash of swords, the stench of blood, the sound of explosions, the smoky scent of gunpowder, the screaming of spells), and being left behind to worry in complete agony about the people he knew he couldn't help (not with…). Or the helplessness of the battlefield itself, the chaos, not knowing where anyone was, not knowing how to save them all (have to save them all, not like last time, not like last time!).

"Yes," Merlin grimaced. But Molly was the first wizard he'd spoken to in a long time, and he didn't want to speak of this (not his mistakes, not his uselessness, not his complete, utterly worthless powers; what good were they when he couldn't even use them?). And she seemed upset by the topic (lost people she knew, probably). So he changed the subject: "What does your husband do for a living?"

"He works in the Ministry; he's the Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office." Figured. "He loves his job, too, what with his fascination with muggles. He'd probably love to meet you," she continued. "He pesters any guest with the slightest connection to them; he's very passionate." The way she said it, all fond exasperation, with the crinkling of her eyes and little up-turn of her lip told Merlin that she loved her husband, loved him very dearly. "Anyway, dear, what does your mother do for a living?"

"She's a journalist, travels a lot. I don't see her as much as I'd like to," Merlin lied. This was the easiest way to excuse the fact that his mother wasn't around, without the pity associated with telling people she was dead (and his heart still twinged at the thought a little. Time didn't heal wounds, just made you more accustomed to bearing their pain).

Molly examined him with a critical eye, and Merlin felt dread well up within him. The last thing he needed was this woman becoming attached. He really hadn't thought much of their conversation. He'd only wanted to talk to someone who wasn't Mrs. Smith, but maybe he'd made a mistake. "Anyway, we should probably get that stapler taken care of. Don't want to keep you waiting; it's bad form on my part. I've probably delayed you enough as it is." Molly tilted her head, a thoughtful gleam in her eye, and Merlin knew his fear was well-founded.

"No, no. I enjoyed our chat, and, anyway, you're a delightful young man, so helpful. And far too skinny! You'll simply _have_ to come over for tea sometime." It wasn't an offer; it was an order disguised and prettied up, so he'd _think_ it was an offer and be tricked into going. Even recognizing the trick, he couldn't let this cheerful, friendly woman be hurt by his refusal.

"Well, if you insist."

"So, this is what we have so far," Harry announced, tossing the file down onto the desk as he sat beside Ron. "Margaret was the eldest daughter of Uther Penn, a rather successful businessman. She had a younger brother, Arthur, and Marcus was the youngest. Margaret was the product of Uther's first marriage, but that didn't work out and her parents divorced. Her mother remarried, and so did Uther. Arthur was born with the second wife, who died in childbirth. Marcus was adopted years later after his father, his only family, died. Uther and Arthur died ten months ago in an accident." Ron whistled.

"That's a lot of dead family members," he commented.

Ron's office was rather messy. Most of it was taken up by a large wooden desk and a matching faux-leather chair. The desk was cluttered with ink bottles, quills, and documents that Ron needed to get through but was procrastinating because "I did _not_ sign up to be an auror just to sit at a table, _reading_ and _writing_! That's not my job!" ("Ron, filling out paperwork is _definitely_ part of the job. Look, now you can put what Hermione taught you to good use." And Ron mumbled, "She taught me how to copy off of her, that's what she taught me.") Cabinets lined the walls, and on top of them were personal touches, like pictures of Ron's siblings and Hermione, as well as couple of all three of them, having fun. Harry in one of the pictures waved cheerfully to his real-life counterpart.

"Yes, well, we need to speak with Margaret's step-family, Gregory and Alyssa Williams, and maybe see if we can track down some of the siblings' friends for more information. We need to visit her family today. They don't even know their daughter's been murdered." Harry rubbed his forehead, feeling that his head was going to explode. It had already been such a bad morning, and now he had to go talk to two very distraught parents.

"Are they muggles?" Ron asked.

"Gregory is, but Alyssa isn't. I wonder if she knows anything about what her daughter was doing."

"If she does, she might have some idea of who killed them."

"I think that'd be a little too convenient with our sort of luck," Harry laughed. He stood. "Let's get this over with."

 _I know very well he can't stay with them. It's a bad place all around, filled with hatred and ignorance, without love. He won't be happy there, won't be prepared there. He won't know what's happening. Going in blind is a terrible idea, like jumping into the ocean without knowing how to swim. You're begging to drown, doing that. But this is worse, because someone else is throwing him in, understanding that he'll die, doing so. Only a miracle will save him if he goes in blind._

 _I must be the hand that saves him from drowning, for no one but me seems to comprehend the immense consequences that leaving him here will have._

 _I stride up to the door, prepared to break in if they will not let me leave with him peacefully. But I've seen their hearts and know they don't want anything to do with him, and likely it will only take seconds for them to turn their own blood over into my unfamiliar hands. It doesn't matter, though; I_ will _care for him, and care for him well._

 _Suddenly, I feel a presense in my gut, a horrible, sickening feeling. It's like slime, like a horrible pus gushing up from within, from a crevice in my guts leading to an infinite abyss._

This is not your duty _. The voice is ominous, booming, a crack of thunder in the night. I clap my hands over my ears and release a howl of pain, the howling of the wind to echo the bellow of thunder. Together, a storm. I feel something wet beneath my fingers; it's blood. It begins to spill from the canyon in my gut, bubbling over like a pot of water that's been left on the stove for too long, trickling from my nose and tear ducts._

 _But it doesn't hurt._

 _I fall to my knees and above me the stars blur into one mass of bright light. It's the sun, I think. Time has messed up, messed up for me. It doesn't move like that, become night and day in a split-second. The sky is still dark, though. It's day and night together? Time existing all at once, folded in on itself like fabric…_

Sleep now, my little champion. Your time will come.

 _My palms hit the concrete beneath me, and collapse onto my stomach. Maybe the abyss will leak out of me now, I think. Nothing so heavy could ever stay inside of me…_

It will come soon.

When Mrs. Dursley goes outside the next morning to collect the day's paper, she doesn't even notice the reddish-brown stain on the sidewalk.

 **AN: OMG! Thank you so much for the positive feedback, guys! I wasn't sure if anyone would even be interested in this. So someone asked about updating, and I think it will be about once a week. If I manage to save up some chapters, I might even try updating twice a week. We'll see.**

 **Anyway, if you feel up for it, I'd be interested in knowing what you think is going on and any predictions you have, so please leave a review. Or, you know, don't, but I will say they really are motivating, so a special thanks to those that did on chapter one. Also for those that followed and favorited! Thanks for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3: The Man and his Dragon

**Chapter Three: The Man and his Dragon**

 **** **Warning for (not graphic) suicide (just skip the italics)**

 _I'm standing on the edge of a one-hundred-and-twelve-foot building, nine stories high. Wind tears at my clothing and hair, running chilly fingers through the strands. I decided blonde this time, but it was a poor decision on my part. It reminds me too much of him. I miss him, an ache in my heart, in my bones, in my soul. I want him back, for real. Not some two-dimensional parody that can't even remember what he fights for. Can't even remember_ how _to fight (not that the physical fighting matters; it was always how he fought with his voice, fought with his eyes, chin jutted out, head tall)._

 _Tears prick my eyes, not just from the wind, but from the weight of a million memories, a thousand unanswered prayers, and hundreds of whispered pleas to no one, for I have lived long enough to know when there is no one to turn to, no one to comfort me._

 _Dying is a sure way to be put to sleep, but I don't care. My king has already perished this time around. There's no point in gathering anyone else, now. I will leave the others in peace, their memories written off as dreams, imagination, and the wonders of the mind. It is something I will never achieve, something I envy them for. I can't disrupt their lives with this, with me. There will be later, always later. But never forward, never a way to grasp the dream we'd dreamed so long ago: golden hills, a blue, blue sky, and running rivers, clear like crystal, clear like shattered glass._

 _The sky is gray now, gray like the skin of a corpse, and lightning flashes across it. Thunder roars, nearly shaking the earth with its voice, the way a lion's shakes a savannah. "Please," I whisper, looking up at it. I can almost make out a face, full lips, stern eyes, long, flowing hair in the clouds, my eyes building up the shadows to something they are not._

 _Rain drip-drops from its mouth, slow at first, and then faster, vomiting water directly onto the street below—and me. I'm soaked in seconds. The water seems to seep into my skin, bloating my body, expanding and expanding till I explode._

Don't do this _, someone says, the same someone who puts me to sleep, who stops me from doing as I wish when I wish it._

 _I hate them, whoever they are. Whatever power they wield, it is greater than mine._

 _"You don't get to decide what I do! It's my choice!" I shout. "Mine! My…" I choke, swiping my eyes, "…decision. Not yours."_

You are correct, little champion. Even I cannot prevent you from doing this, but I will warn against it. You have the answer, have all the pieces to the puzzle, the key to unlock the final door. Do not blind yourself with despair! _They're desperate, I think. Desperate for me not to do this. I can hear it in their voice, a crack in their usual iron façade._

 _Almost just to spite them, I step off._

Stop! You must—

The house was rather large, though that was to be expected. Gregory was a muggle lawyer in a long line of _very_ successful people, and Alyssa was a renowned magical researcher. It was almost a mansion, considering its sprawling layout, but Harry didn't think it had quite reached those standards yet. It was two stories, and massive front windows looked out like wide eyes at them. The door was a dark wood, with a brass doorknob. Extensive green fields, trimmed to perfection, surrounded the building. It also had a splendid garden. It was spring, and thus the perfect time for bright yellow and orange jetfires, tulips, and beautiful, crimson fireglows. They were blooming nicely, and Harry quite enjoyed the sight of them, even if his botanical knowledge reminded him, unfortunately, of the Dursleys. Though he and Dudley were okay now, he didn't think he'd ever forgive Vernon or Petunia for their treatment of him.

Ron was behind him, also looking at the large house. Harry heard him whistle lowly. They'd apparated a little ways down the street and hadn't really had the time to admire the gorgeous home. Its grandeur was better appreciated up close.

"I know," Harry muttered, raising his hand to knock. He schooled his face into one of graveness, like stone.

A man opened the door. He was of average height, with salt-and-pepper hair, and a short, trimmed beard. He was wearing casual modern, muggle attire: jeans and a polo shirt. He had socks on, patterned in pineapples.

"Would you be Mr. Williams?" Harry asked politely. The man leaned on the door and looked him over, taking in his official auror robes. The confusion revealed by the crinkle between his eyes likely meant he didn't recognize the uniform.

"And who might you be? If you're looking for Alyssa, she's busy and can't come to see two silly—" He started closing the door, already convinced they were there to pester his near-famous wife.

"I'm Auror Potter, and that's Auror Weasley," Harry interrupted, flashing his badge. "We're here to speak with both you and Mrs. Williams about Margaret and Marcus." Williams took a step back in surprise. He opened the door wider.

"Well, then, I suppose you had better come in. Have they done something wrong?" He stepped back, allowing them access to the foyer. It was fairly large; a staircase was to the right, and a table stood on the left, with a plant and pictures arranged along its surface. The pictures were of Margaret, Marcus, and presumably Arthur, along with family shots of the three plus Gregory and Alyssa. One showed them fishing, another mountain climbing. A mirror hung above it. Ahead of them, it opened up into a sitting room of some kind.

"Um," Harry glanced to Ron. In all his time, there had never been a very good way of putting this, telling people that their loved ones had died, often brutally and in pain, as in this case. How could you tell someone that?

"I think you should get your wife, Mr. Williams," Ron put in. "It would be best to inform you together." Williams paled, but nodded.

"Please, have a seat on the sofa," he offered, gesturing to the room in front of him. "And call me Greg. Alyssa is experimenting in her lab, so it might be quite a wait. I apologize in advance." _Me too_ , Harry wanted to say.

"It's no trouble," he said instead, smiling painfully.

As Greg trudged up the stairs, Harry and Ron entered the sitting room. It was tastefully done, with a television on the wall, a sofa across from it. A table sat in the middle of the room, and a loveseat was to the left, and across from it an armchair. The two were locked in an eternal staring match.

Harry and Ron sat down next to each other on the sofa. They'd agreed that Harry would do most of the talking. Both dreaded the job but knew it needed to be done with all the compassion they had. However, it wasn't something they took joy in or wanted to do. In fact, it seemed like a failure, the deaths. It was their job to protect people from dark wizards (even if the people they were protecting _were_ dark wizards), and murders like these showed just how fallible they were. No one could predict a first-time killer. Not even Harry himself, who had defeated Voldemort at the tender age of seventeen. He had thought himself grown, then. And maybe he had been, compared to others, but he was still so young, even naïve, compared to his current self.

"How do you think the Dawdsons will get on? Those things looked pretty nasty," Ron said, looking around. He stared at the pictures and paintings on the walls. One oil painting depicted a ship on the ocean in the midst of a storm. It bobbed up and down on the water, its little crew shouting and scuttling to keep their vessel upright.

The Dawdsons were the rune experts they had called in. They were an aging couple, one tall and thin, the other short and rather muscular. The two were flighty at the prospect of possible dark runes, but Harry felt that, given their compensation, they would do a good job. The doorframe hadn't been the only thing in their house with runes carved into it. There had been many items in the basement—and even a couple in the closet—that had had runes, obscure-looking symbols that only experts could've figured out.

"They seemed skittish but willing. They said it might take weeks, maybe months, to decipher that many runes, though. We'll probably have to wait at least a week for any specific leads to turn up there," Harry said. The couple had agreed to begin work the next day. "I'm really hoping Alyssa or Greg knows something, or else we're back at square one." Ron sighed.

"Blimey, mate, I can already feel the headache," he murmured, rubbing his temple. Harry agreed, leaning forward onto his knees.

He sat up as he heard the two coming down the stairs. Entering the sitting room, Alyssa was revealed to be a tall woman, slender, with dark hair and light eyes. Her skin was tan, probably from working outside, and even though she was in her forties or fifties, she looked as though she could be thirty-something. She was wearing well-made trousers, but they were clearly meant for work, and ankle boots. Harry and Ron rose to meet her.

"Mrs. Williams," Harry greeted. "Why don't you both sit down?" he suggested.

"Straight to business, I see," Alyssa smiled. "Are you certain you wouldn't like some tea first?"

"That won't be necessary, Ma'am, but thank you," Ron said formally.

"Please, call me Alyssa. Now, Greg told me that this was about Margaret and Marcus? What's happened?" Harry waited till everyone was seated before clearing his throat.

"We're very sorry about this, but last night both Margaret and Marcus were murdered," he said, knowing it was best to be blunt. Greg's eyes became wide, and he gasped. Alyssa placed her head in her hands. "You have our deepest condolences." He knew it didn't help, being sorry, that it didn't make it better or fixed anything, but it was all he had to offer at the moment. That, and his vow to catch their murderer.

"H-How…" Greg's voice was shaky and croaky, like something was crawling up from his lungs. "How did they…?" Harry understood.

"They were both the victims of violent curses, and would've bled out quickly. It would've been like falling asleep." A painful sleep, but sleep nonetheless. Harry knew from experience, only he'd been lucky enough to live; people had reached him in time to stop him from slipping into death's cruel grip.

"But we just saw them, a couple of days ago, and they were fine, completely fine," Alyssa muttered to herself, face still buried in her hands.

"We know this is difficult for you," Harry said, "but we'll need you to come to the Department, preferably sooner than later; we want to arrange everything as soon as possible, do what they would've wanted. And we would like to know if there's anything—anything at all—that you know pertaining to who might have killed them."

"I can't think of anyone who… The two are—were—such good k-kids," Greg replied. Alyssa wrapped her arms around him, nodding. They both looked so sad, so despairing, that Harry almost wanted to end the questioning there. He opened his mouth to speak, but Alyssa beat him to it.

"You know, now that I think about it, Margaret was talking about some man that she thought may've been stalking them. She said she got… a weird feeling from him. Definitely was a wizard, she told me. She has—h-had—rather strong magic. She was a prodigy, began learning magic younger than most children in order to stop her accidental magic. We had to send her out of Europe to be taught because no magic school here would teach one so young. And it seemed for the best, especially when…"

She stopped there, her eyes lost in thought. She looked at him.

"Well, I suppose you know." He did. The war.

"Can you describe him?" Ron asked, pulling out a notepad he brought with him everywhere. It was pocket-sized, a present from Hermione. A self-inking quill came out with it.

"She said he was about six foot, dark curly hair, and blue eyes. Pale skin. I told her if she—if she saw him again, she should leave, come here. Get away from him before—" she choked off.

"Where, exactly, did she see him? Following her around, or…?" Harry asked. "I know this is difficult, but I promise this will help us find the one who did this."

Alyssa wiped her eyes, and Greg patted her hand, still pale.

"She said she saw him more than once outside her house, lurking. Just standing there for no reason. She asked him if he lived around there, but she said he didn't answer, just stared at her with a dark expression on his face, and walked off," she replied. "She started using the floo, keeping the door locked at all times. She said he freaked her out. Marcus thought he wasn't quite right, you know. In here." Alyssa tapped her temple with one finger.

"Thank you. We'll see if anyone else in the neighborhood has seen him, so we can figure out his name and question him." Harry was surprised they'd gotten such a strong lead so early on. Maybe the case would wrap itself up sooner rather than later, as he'd thought it would. Trepidation welled in his gut as he realized there was still one line of questioning he had to pursue.

"When we searched the house, we found… Well, there's no easy way to put this: there were dark artifacts—books, devices, potions—discovered in their basement. Did either of you know about this? A rival—some dark wizard—might've wanted them out of the way."

Greg's mouth hung open. Alyssa closed her eyes and raised a hand to her forehead.

"I had no idea! It must've been planted there; there's no way either of them would...!" Greg nearly shouted, but stopped as Alyssa placed a hand on his arm. Harry and Ron waited expectantly.

"I… suspected. I tried to warn them that nothing good would come of researching such dark things, but perhaps…" Her lips thinned as she pressed them together. "Perhaps I did not do it well enough. Merlin, I'm such a horrible mother." She burst into tears. Ron shifted uncomfortably.

"No, no, Darling, o-of course y-you're not a horrible…" Greg began to sob, too. Harry knew they would get no more out of them, not in this state. Besides, they had a lead now. If they hurried, they might be able to question people in the muggle neighborhood before it became so late that such questions would be unwelcome.

"I can see that you both need some time to yourselves. Please, contact either Auror Weasley or myself if you think of anything. The Department will be expecting you within the week," Harry said. "We can show ourselves out." He and Ron stood. Alyssa looked up at them, tears still streaming from her eyes.

"Please, f-find who d-did this. They n-need to p-pay for what they've d-done." It was choppy, the voice of a grieving mother. But it was also determined.

"We will," Harry nodded to her, his mouth a grim slash, his eyes the green fire of persistence, eyes that would burn anything up in sight, anything that got in their way (or at least choke them on the way out). "Trust me, we will."

Merlin unlocked his door and opened it with a flourish. He tossed his workbag (where he kept his lunch, books, and anything else he felt he might need) onto the floor dramatically, like he was an actor on a stage, making his every movement clear to the audience.

He had tea with Molly tomorrow morning. The witch was ridiculous, really. Who invited a stranger to tea simply because he'd helped find a gift? Actually, Merlin was fairly certain he'd done something like that before. He flopped onto his old, scraggly couch. The cushions had lost of their life and sagged, too old to support him properly. But Merlin had slept on a dirt floor the first part of his life (and worse places during the other parts of it), so he wasn't too bothered.

Contrary to popular belief, immortality did not grant one infinite sums. He supposed it made it easier to save up, made it easier to get a good job, but when you looked twenty-something for the rest of your life, and you didn't want to draw attention, being the expert in a field maybe wasn't the best thing to do (he spoke from experience, of course; being Professor Emmerton was only entertaining for so long). He didn't even want to think about the trouble it was to draw money from banks when you didn't even look like you had before (because of _course_ Merlin was going to change his appearance every so often; conspiracy theorists were persistent people, and completely mad to boot).

And he didn't think it'd go over well if he just "found" priceless medieval objects that were centuries old, or, the Triple Goddess forbid, _gold_. He'd be arrested or viewed suspiciously, for sure (again the experience thing; he should really just think through what he was about to do before he did it). And goblins, while they may've been willing to give him money out of respect (long story), that was almost stealing (for all their keeping riches, they didn't own much themselves) and he didn't feel like asking for charity. So, he was living in a rather small flat, with rather old furniture, and heating that _sometimes_ worked, though that would be less of an issue as the year progressed (but it was bloody annoying in winter; constant heating charms took energy).

He sighed, dreading the day to come. Why had he decided to be nice and help the witch out? Now he'd just hurt her feelings, standing her up, now. And he didn't feel like hurting the feelings of someone who was as kind as she was. He closed his eyes, ready for a nap, when he heard something tapping on one of his windows. Jumping, he swore. She was back earlier than he'd anticipated; three weeks had passed, not the full month and a half he'd been expecting. He groaned, lurching to his feet. The tapping grew insistent, louder and faster.

"Yes, yes, I'm coming, you overgrown lizard," he called, running a hand through his hair (it was curly this time, and he decided he liked it that way, all ringlets, even if it got a little wild sometimes).

It was the window in his bedroom. Outside, flapping irritably, was a white falcon. She had blue eyes, like the ocean, and a razor sharp beak. Merlin yanked on the window, but it jammed, and she gave a shriek.

"I'm trying!" he shouted back, and with a flash of golden eyes, the glass went flying upward. In pounced the bird, bowling into Merlin's chest and knocking him to the ground. He grunted. The bird walked up, nearly onto his neck, and peered into his face, her head cocked.

"Aithusa!" Merlin struggled to sit up, to no avail. He rested back in defeat. "Aithusa, get off; I can't breathe, you flying featherbrain." She squawked indignantly, ruffling her wings.

And sat down. On his chest.

"Aithusa," Merlin growled. "Get off." With another flash of golden eyes, the bird was not too gently shifted off of his body. Merlin sat up, rubbing his chest. "Ouch, that hurt. Why'd you do that?"

Abruptly, the bird began to change shape, growing bigger and longer. The feathers shortened, hardened into scales. Out grew front legs as the wings turned leathery, shifting closer to her spine. Her tail grew long, as did her talons.

"Because," she said, in a voice perfectly normal, if a little husky, reminiscent of crackling embers, "you did something reckless." Merlin scowled at her, climbing to his feet. She was larger than a wolf, but not quite as big as a bear. It wasn't her true, size, of course. That was positively massive.

Aithusa had potent shape-shifting abilities, something fairly common among ancient dragons (and totally absent in the less intelligent wyvern-variety today), though Kilgarrah had not possessed the power.

"I did what I had to," Merlin practically snarled. "Something you did not, in my absence."

"And for good reason," Aithusa said. "Merlin, you _just_ woke up; don't you think you should take it easy?"

"It's _Evan._ And I'll take it easy when _someone_ does what she promised to," he snapped back. Aithusa tapped him lightly with her tail, reprimanding.

"I was looking after you. Don't fault me for that; I'm not the one you're truly angry with." She retorted, cutting to the heart of the matter. Cutting into the matter of Merlin's heart.

She was right, per usual.

"But let's not fight." She nudged his thigh affectionately. "In fact, let's eat; I'm famished from my flight."

"You didn't eat something on your way back?" Merlin asked, moving to the hall so they could get to the kitchen. He'd ignore the undercurrent of tension, for now. But he knew it would be there, under their skin like veins, until they resolved it. They were sometimes so different; it was rooted back, a thousand-plus years ago, when the baby dragon had seen something good in Morgana, under all her evil madness.

After Arthur had died, Merlin had found Aithusa, had spent years healing her body, taking proper care of her, as he had not done before. As he should've done. One shouldn't bring anything into the world without the intention to care for it. He had thought Kilgarrah would raise her (they were of the same species, after all), but it had been his duty, as the one who had hatched her, the one who had born her. He had told her, calling her into the world that day, that she was safe, was going to be loved and cared for.

He was such a liar.

"Of course I ate something. But a couple of field mice doesn't exactly satiate, you know." Merlin rolled his eyes, opening the fridge. He'd stocked up on meat (which was far too expensive to be buying so regularly) and took out some thick, raw chicken strips.

"How was everything up at the Northern Sanctuary?" he asked, placing the meat on a plate.

Centuries ago, he knew the magical creatures and peoples of the earth were running out of places to go. The land was eaten up by wizards and non-magic people alike. When they weren't fleeing from exposure and the killings muggles might bring, they were trying to escape wizards' persecution of them, including restrictive laws, torture disguised as justified self-defense, and horrible, hideous executions. Merlin couldn't stand it, and it was happening in too many places to count. So he journeyed to six locations all over the world, secluded and remote, so high or low or dangerous or isolated that no human dared to set foot there, not even of the magical kind.

In these places, he created Sanctuaries, safe places of refuge for those who weren't safe in the world. They hid there, and prospered. Merlin checked on them periodically, perhaps once every couple of centuries, to ensure everything was running smoothly. Eventually, the places faded into legend, though any haggard refugee determined enough could find their way there, to a safe haven. Merlin dearly wished he could open their borders, share it with everyone who needed it, but the exposure was too great. If ever wizards—or even muggles—found them, the people, the precious living beings held within, would surely be harmed, captured, enslaved, killed by the thousands.

If wizards and muggles did these horrible things to their own people, Merlin knew how they'd treat the people sheltered within his sanctuaries.

"It's well. A faction rose up, seeking to go outside the borders, and, of course, they were allowed, to their surprise. Sometimes, I fear, the governments in these places forget that their people can leave at any time, with the condition to not reveal the location to any other living thing." Aithusa gobbled down her second strip greedily, swiping at her chops with her long, pink tongue.

"But there was no bloodshed?" Merlin sat on the floor, stroking her scales quietly, thoughtfully, with deft fingers.

"Scuffles, nothing more. They got their way quickly, and just as quickly found their way back," Aithusa snorted. "The outside wasn't to their liking." Merlin grinned.

"Those that make their way out generally find their way back, if only to see their loved ones before they die," he said. Aithusa finished the final strip and burped in satisfaction. She curled up beside him.

"I was only worried, when I realized what you'd done. I wasn't really mad," Aithusa told him, resting her heavy head into his lap. "I know you only did what you thought was right." She closed her eyes, breathing deeply.

He stroked her smooth nose. She was wrong, hadn't seen the scar in his soul this time. Right? He'd been angry, ever so angry, so furious and vengeful. But he supposed she couldn't know everything.

He was a liar, after all.

 **AN: I love you all so much! The support's been great. I think I gave you guys enough hints this chapter to begin to piece together some of what's been happening. Some other things, however, won't be revealed till the end, but maybe you have some theories. I'd love to read them, and dropping a review is the surest way to keep me writing. Special thank you to those you have already done so, and those who have followed/favorited my story.**

 **BTW, I'm so sorry this is late! I had it written Sunday, but** ** _someone_** **wouldn't edit/proofread it.**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	4. Chapter 4

I think guidelines say I'm not allowed to post without an actual chapter, but here we go. I'm sorry about not updating, but I think I'm going to have to abandon this story. I had the rest of the plot outlined, however, so if anyone wants to adopt it, PM me and I'll give you a run down on what was meant to happen (though of course you don't have to follow my plot if you don't want to).


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